


scarecrow in the garden

by teratologies



Category: Original Work, exophilia - Fandom, teratophilia - Fandom
Genre: Cunnilingus, Human/Monster Romance, Other, Outdoor Sex, Scarecrow - Freeform, monster/reader - Freeform, scarecrow/reader - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-11-28 18:22:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20970995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teratologies/pseuds/teratologies
Summary: Nydia inherits her Grandmother's old cottage, and meets a peculiar entity tending to the abandoned garden.





	1. Chapter 1

You'd left behind everything familiar, everyone you had known, to pursue your dreams in a sleepy old town far from home. It was your grandmothers old home and, when she'd passed away a couple years ago, she left her quaint cottage home to you in her will. It'd sat empty for many years. You were just barely an adult, you wanted to go to college and start a career- not live in your grandmother's old cottage in the middle of nowhere. But now the thought of living somewhere peaceful and surrounded by nature felt like a dream come true. The hectic concrete jungle you once called home had lost all it's appeal.

However, when you arrived to the cottage, your idealistic fantasy was quickly dashed.

The home was worse for wear, with its paint old and chipping, the windows were cracked, and the garden in the back you'd once frolicked in had now become an impenetrable thicket of unkempt vines and weeds. It wasn't at all like you remembered, of course it wouldn't be. You knew it wouldn't be great but you didn't expect it would be this bad.

You didn't know how to garden, or repair a house, or replace a window. But It was going to take a lot of work before it was livable, that you knew.

Luckily, the inside was in surprisingly better condition. The electricity and air conditioning worked and all you had to do was clean up here and there. Something nagged at you in the back of your head. Strangely, the furniture was as clean as the day it was bought, the floor looked freshly swept... Shouldn't it be much more dusty in here?

You checked the rest of the house and found no signs of someone else living there, so you pushed the thought to the back of your mind and tried to soothe the odd feeling stirring in your chest by unpacking you suitcase.

Some of your grandmothers old trinkets sat on the dresser and you could not bare to remove them. Instead, you lit one of the old scented candles she'd scattered around the home during family gatherings.

The nostalgia that flooded you when you inhaled it's scent was almost overwhelming. With a yawn, you curled under the blankets an let your weary body recover after a long day. The warm scent of nutmeg and pumpkin lulled you into a dreamless sleep.

Tomorrow you would have a lot of work to do.

\--

You awoke early in the morning, a chill nipping at your toes from the cold air seeping in through the cracked windows. _Damn, I really need to remember to call a repairman_

It takes you a couple minutes to convince yourself to get out of bed, and when you eventually do you fix yourself a warm cup of chamomile tea and head outside.

Stepping into the backyard is like stepping into another world.

At the center, there's an ancient, withered oak tree. It's giant shadow covers nearly the entire yard. Beneath it is a graveyard of trellises, abandoned gardening tools, and little concrete statues buried under layers of fallen leaves and vines. Surprisingly, even here things are blooming. Climbing roses, having been freed from restrictive pruning, drape themselves over every square inch. They boast showy pink flowers that droop with the weight of their own petals.

You inhale, and the crisp air carries with it the scent of roses and earthy must.

After a while of enjoying the morning and watching small birds dart through the canopy, you get to work picking up whatever scraps of trash and rusted metal you can find. You quickly amass a sizable pile.

You bend down to pick up a pair of rusted shears and in your haste you prick yourself on a needle-sharp rose thorn. When you rise, the grinning face burlap face of a scarecrow is staring directly at you.

The sheer fright alone sends you skittering backwards, nearly tripping over a cluster of vines you were sure weren't there before. Your heart thunders in your ears.

The menacing looking effigy doesn't move.

_Of course it doesn't move, it's just a scarecrow._

A very unusual looking scarecrow, in almost pristine condition, made from a long sleeved plaid shirt, burlap and denim jeans stuffed with straw. On its head sits a wide-brimmed woven hat. He's only propped up with a broomstick, but seems to stand unnervingly on his own accord.

_If I were a crow I'd be scared shitless of that thing._

You keep eye contact with it for just a moment longer, drawn into its pitch black eyes and grinning mouth. You would have remembered this if it had been here when you visited as a child. You wonder where it came from. It certainly didn't seem to be doing its job, judging from the murder of crows busying themselves on the other side of the yard.

Eventually you decide to go back inside and tend to your scratches and scrapes. But you never quite take your eyes off the scarecrow till you make it back inside. In the silence of the house you realize just how loudly your heart is still thrumming. You scoff at yourself for being afraid of a inanimate object, even though your mind is still filled with the recollection of its abyssal eyes.

A bit later, after lunch and a quick trip to the hardware store, you return to the garden equipped with a shiny new pair of loppers. You'd had enough of those rose vines tearing at your clothes and skin every time you tried to clean up the garden.

As you put on a pair of gloves however, your enthusiasm for chopping down these plants was dampened. You felt a headache beginning to form and the pain was growing unusually fast. It's not like you've never gotten headaches before, but never this suddenly.

Still, you continued on. You really wanted to at least make a dent in this jungle before nightfall.

You pressed the sharp metal blades of the loppers to a particularly thick stem.

There was a shrill squeak from the friction, the sound of crunching plant matter and...

Pain erupted behind your eyes, so intense it made you loose your balance, stumble, and drop the shears. All at once it pounded and roared in your skull as if someone had come along and hit you over the head with a rock.

You shut your eyes and willed it to go away, but instead a wave of nausea joined in. You barely made it back to the house before your shaking knees gave out and you collapsed into bed. The world spun and your efforts to reach your phone failed. You prayed it would stop, squeezed your eyes so tightly and rubbed your temple until your vision went black and unconsciousness swallowed you.


	2. Chapter 2

  
You tried to open your eyes but all you saw was darkness.  
The pain in your head was only a dull throb now. But panic was quickly rising in your chest as you fought to see something, anything, your hands felt around blindly but found only emptiness.  
There was nothing, nothing except the sound of your own shallow breathing and an overwhelming feeling of _wrongness_.  
That is, until you heard footsteps.  
Slow, dragging footsteps from some being mere feet away from you.  
Your mind screamed at you to run, but you stood there frozen. The smell of damp earth and hay filled your senses, and your mind immediately connected the dots.

  
The scarecrow.

  
_Oh. This isn't real._  
You must be dreaming. It's just a dream.  
  
The _thing_ standing in front of you must have seen the realization dawn on your face, because it lets out a deep, rumbling chuckle . As threatening and foreboding as distant rolling thunder that announces a coming storm. A chill wracks it's way down your spine.

"You've got a lot of nerve." It says, the sound rising from its chest with a rattle, like its lungs hadn't been used in ages. Its voice reverberates like its in your head, and you're not sure how it can even speak when its mouth is nothing more than a cut-out piece of burlap.  
For whatever reason, be it due to just plain stupidity or the absurdness of the situation, you laugh. You can feel it's surprised gaze on your face until you straighten yourself and regain your composure.

The thing lets out a snarl of what you think is frustration that reverberates through your entire being and should have scared you more than it did.

It reaches out it's gloved hand and grabs your wrist hard.  
"Keep your hands off of my garden," it growls, "or you'll have a lot more to worry about than a little headache."

_That was-_

You heave in a breath, your eyes fly open, and the whole world comes rushing back in. You're sitting in you bed and everything is the same.  
You're about to shrug it off as a strange migraine-induced fever dream but your breath catches in your throat when you catch a glimpse your wrist. There are little indents of reddish-purple bruising where it's hand had been.

You rub at them as if they're just smudges of paint but they don't budge, they just ache.

If you were a sensible person you would have left the house then and there, and sold it to some poor fool. But you were the opposite of sensible, so you carried on with the day as if you didn't have some fucking... scarecrow demon ghost or whatever it was threatening to kill you if you messed with it's garden.

Perhaps you could sympathize with it.

You suppose you would be mad, too, if someone came into your home uninvited and started chopping everything down.

You make yourself a cup of tea and head outside. The shears are right where you dropped them, and the scarecrow is in the same spot. It's eyes still as void-black as yesterday. It doesn't move but the straw hat on it's head shifts with the wind.  
Before you bend down to pick them up, you stop yourself and give it a warning glance.  
You pause to clear you throat.  
"I'm just putting them away." You say in it's direction, not making eye contact, and pick up the tools.

_Is this really my life now? Talking to a scarecrow as if it can hear me?_

Regardless, It seems to do the trick, you don't feel any pain and the tension in the atmosphere dissipates. You put them away and sit down in one of the aluminum chairs that surrounds a round table, one of the few pieces of furniture out here that's still functional. The birds above dart from branch to branch in the oak tree, singing their songs all the while. You notice one drop down into a particularly thick patch of vines, and hear the shrill peeping of baby birds seconds later.

_She has a nest in there!_

  
The vines may look gnarled and unsightly from the ground, but as you follow them up you can see the fresh green growth erupting from them, reaching for the sun, heavy with those drooping flowers.  
A strange mixture of guilt and nostalgia washes over you as you remember the way the garden looked when you visited. Your grandmother always kept everything so pruned and neat, everything has it's place. Like something out of a magazine.  
Maybe you were doing a disservice to her, but you wouldn't restore it to its former glory or try to tame it. Not when there was so much life and chaotic beauty. Not when it now belonged to someone... or something... else. _Not just because you were being threatened._

_ _

When you came home from work that day you brought home new things for the garden.

A little bird feeder, and a badly neglected hydrangea that you found in the clearance section. You filled the feeder with sunflower seeds and hung it up on one of the oak's lower branches.

  
It was pretty obvious why the hydrangea only cost you 5$. The few leaves it had were yellow and it looked like it hadn't been watered in weeks. You weren't a green thumb by any means, your past experience with houseplants taught you that, but you figured you would give it a shot.  
You walk over to the scarecrow and find a bare patch of earth next to it. The perfect place for the little plant. You sit cross-legged on the ground and glance up at the effigy as if to ask permission. It was getting dark, so you couldn't see all that well, but you swear it's head is cocked to the side, eyes soft and a bit less intimidating. The soil pliable as you gently dig and slip the plant into the earth. The rusted old watering can you found when you cleaned up still held water somehow, so you used it to give the plant a much needed drink.  
The sun is almost set when you're finished babying the thing, going so far as to tie it to a stake so it doesn't fall over and put mulch around the base of it to keep the soil moist. You did everything the Internet told you to do. Maybe it was a bad idea but you were hopelessly attached to this little plant.  
  
When you finally make it into bed after washing the dirt off your hands you're exhausted.  
  
You think back to last night and let your fingers graze over your wrist. The bruises are gone. Not even the slightest discoloration remains._ Do bruises usually heal that fast?_ You press the skin around where they were and feel no ache. Maybe it all just was some weird hallucination. Maybe the scarecrow is just a scarecrow.  
  
But when you drift off, you can feel his presence at the edge of your consciousness. Your dream is in color now, there's moonlight filtering in from somewhere above, the ground is carpeted in fallen leaves, and there's a crispness to the air. There are crickets chirping off in the distance.  
"Hello?" You speak softly, hesitant to disrupt the peacefulness of the night.

Your reply is a shuffling of leaves and the damp scent of pertichor that follows.

He's there when you turn around, eyes gauging your reaction as you take in his form.

The first thing you notice is how much taller he is than you. Outside, he's slouched and bent over and looks like a mismatched collection of clothing. But here he looks natural, his clothes fit him like a second skin. _What's holding him up? What does he look like under all that?_

Your eyes travel back up to his face and you realize you've been staring a bit too long. You can feel a rush of blood coloring your cheeks.

"I'm sorry I, um, disturbed your garden." You speak and your voice feels much too weak. You find it hard to look in those bottomless eyes and quickly glance away.  
"I didn't realize it belonged to someone else," you finish with a small chuckle.

He shifts, body relaxing just a bit, and cocks his head before speaking in that gravely voice that makes you shiver.

  
"Come here."

Your legs start moving before your brain can scream not to.

As you approach him you get a better view of his face. There's absolutely nothing behind the burlap, it's just pitch blackness that swallows every particle of light that enters and makes your eyes strain. The blackness seems to leak out of him in little wisps, as if what he's wearing is only barely enough to contain it. You fight back the urge to touch the shadows currently escaping from a hole in his plaid shirt.

Oh, you're staring again.

You aren't quite sure how you can tell from his permanently-grinning face, but you feel a sense of amusement coming off him. He's the first to initiate contact, he brings a hand up to your cheek slowly, as if not to startle a skittish animal.  
His leather gloves are ice-cold on your skin and you fight to suppress another shiver.

  
"You're really not afraid of me, are you?" He asks, a hint of something you can't name in his voice.  
When he speaks you can feel his cool breath tickle your face, but as for where that breath is coming from- you don't have a clue.

  
"I was," you admit, remembering when how terrified you were in the garden when you first saw him looming over you out of nowhere.

  
"I'm not really anymore," your brows furrow, "I don't know what changed."

The hand on your cheek moves to your chin and he gently tilts your face so you're looking him right in the eyes. His head is cocked to the side again, and you can't help but smile at the quirk, akin to an owl tilting its head.

  
"That's a grave mistake, doll," he chuckles but there's no malice behind the words. He removes his hand and you find yourself almost saddened by the loss of contact.

Wait.   
_Am I really attracted to a fucking scarecrow?_

  
"What's your name?" he speaks softer this time and the low rumble of his voice reverberates in your chest. Your heartbeat quickens.  
_Shit._

  
"Nydia," you clear your throat, "my name's Nydia."

  
He replies with a low hum.

"What's yours?" You question, realizing that just calling him "the scarecrow" was getting a bit old.

"I've gone by many names," he chuckles, "most of which your kind can't pronounce."  
He must have noticed your frown, because he quickly adds, "But you can call me Firdaus, if you want."

  
That creates more questions than it answers. You want to ask him so many things,_ how long has he lived in the garden? doesn't he get lonely? what even **is **he? can he only talk to me in my dreams?_

You choose the latter, as it seems more pressing.

  
"Can we only talk when I'm asleep?" You ask, but immediately regret how silly it sounds coming from your mouth.

  
"I can talk whenever you want," he purrs and lowers himself till he's whispering into your neck, "I just thought here would be a little less... shocking."

It briefly registers that yes, having a scarecrow come to life in broad daylight to cavort with you would be terrifying, but your brain is too fuzzy to dwell on it. You can only hum in agreement.

  
He tilts his head to give your hand a glance, and brings it to his face to inspect it.

  
"Before I go," he skims a finger over the place your bruises used to be, "I should apologize for hurting you." His voice is genuine and remorseful.

  
"I overreacted," he laughs softly but there's sadness in his voice, "I've had some bad experiences with humans and their... destructive abilities."

  
You shake your head vigorously, "No, really, I shouldn't have been messing with such important habitat in the first place." You frown, thinking of all the bird nests and whatnot you would have cut down in your effort to tame the garden, "I should have been more considerate."

  
There's a pause as he thinks to himself. He looks off in the distance and you see the sky lightening with the first rays of dawn.

  
_It's morning already?_

"I suppose I should get going, doll." He picks up your hand again, brings it to his mouth and presses his lips to your skin softly. Or, well, where his lips would be, but you're to busy reeling from the nickname to notice. Something contracts and then swells within your chest, sharp and warm.

  
You don't have time to reply, because the next moment all you're left with is the ghost of his touch on your skin and the bright sunlight streaming through your blinds when you open your eyes.

The clock reads 8:45 AM and you're 45 minutes late for work.

Your last frantic thought before you leave is how you're absolutely certain you set an alarm.


	3. Chapter 3

  
There's a peculiar smell in the air, you notice, as you walk out to the garden after you get home from work. The scent of ozone and cloyingly sweet rose perfume hits your nose as you're greeted by the radiant green of the foliage.

The first thing you notice is the sheer amount of roses blooming, the source of the thick perfume in the air. Some in their full bloom are as wide as your hand, some drop petals in a seemingly never-ending snow.

You spend a second appreciating the soft pinks and yellows of them all, before turning your attention to the corner where Firdaus stands. A little pang of disappointment runs through you see him in this state, slouched and inanimate. You want him to walk over to you and talk to you in that voice that makes your toes curl.

  
You want him to tell you all his stories and secrets, you want him to-

  
You stop yourself before you can continue on that train of thought.

  
Falling for a scarecrow has to be the absolute last thing you thought you'd be doing when you moved here, funny how that works. To tell the truth you've never met anyone... human or otherwise... you've felt an instant connection with like this before. Maybe it's just your hormones talking.

  
A splash of purple-blue catches your eyes and you peer at the source of the color. There's no flowers in the garden that bloom that color.

  
Except-

The hydrangea. The little plant you saved that was on deaths door is now a thick bush of big leaves and dinner-plate sized flowers.

It finally clicks. The roses, the hydrangeas, he did this. Of course, how else did the garden grow so thickly and become so saturated with life in the mere couple years it was abandoned.

A grin splits your face and you can't help but bounce excitedly from the roses, to the hydrangeas and back to the scarecrow slouched in front of you. You wait a couple moments for any signs of life, any twitch of his fingers, but are disappointed to see nothing of the sort.  
You want to thank him.

You get an idea. Stepping closer him, you press yourself against his chest and place a soft kiss to his cheek. He smells like earth and fresh straw and the burlap is scratchy on your lips which is more pleasing than you'd like to admit.

"Thank you Firdaus, for all of this," You whisper and let your lips linger just a bit longer.

A beat passes, and you're about to lean back when you feel a hand press on your back and pull you froward.

  
"Shit-" the curse of surprise escapes your lips before you can stop it.  
You were caught.

  
Mesmerized, you watch as he shutters to life, straightening to his full height before your eyes. That shadow inside him churns and shifts, filling up the hollow space in the clothing he wears. In the daylight you can see how the darkness shimmers like its made of thousands of tiny specks of light.

Finally his head turns, looks you dead in the eyes and you gulp in a breath. Your face burns and you think to pull away but his hand holds your hips firmly in place, trapped against his own.

  
He must be amused by your realization, because he lets out a laugh that shakes you with the force of it. You think maybe you have made a mistake, maybe you are just embarrassing yourself and hes laughing at you, till he brings his face to your neck- chuckling softly now- and rasps into your ear.

  
"You're playing with fire, doll."

The bolt of desire that shoots through your core is so dizzying you tremble like a leaf in his arms.

He must feel your reaction because he stiffens and his bravado suddenly vanishes.

"Sorry, um, I-" you start but can't find the right words to say.

"Can I touch you?" His voice is suddenly soft now, pleading and unsure. He removes his hand from your waist but you don't dare pull away.

You don't have to think about the answer that spills from your mouth in a rush, "Please."

He _growls_ like a wolf that's caught it's prey and his hands find your hips again, pulling you impossibly closer, close enough that the rumble of his voice shakes your insides and you can feel the coolness emanating from his body. The sharp contrast between your heat and his chill is exhilarating.

  
Neither of you speak, or move, for a moment. Your heavy breaths are the only sounds, besides the birds overhead chirping like everything is right with the world, as if you're not down here having some bizarre life changing moment with a damn scarecrow.  
You smile at the thought.

  
He brings a hand up to your cheek, the leather gloves are sun-warmed on your skin, and touches you reverently. Like he isn't sure you're real.  
"You're something special," he rumbles, "what am I going to do with you?"

You can think of several things you want him to do. But you aren't sure if it's even possible for him to _do_ those things.

Seemingly making up his mind, he skims a finger over your lips softly, investigative and provocative all at once.

  
"How are you so-" his voice is strained now, desperate, he brings his face forward and kisses you.

  
Or as close as kissing you as he can, but you don't mind at all. You smirk against his mouth and return the kiss. When he pulls back his black eyes seem suddenly lustrous, swirling like a whirlpool.

  
"-warm."

You smile and kiss him again, on the corner of his mouth, feeling the tickle of the shadows that escape from his form. He makes a pleased hum in the back of his throat and takes a deep breath.

  
Feeling bold, you shift your hips just a little, just enough to brush against him with purpose. The reaction is immediate. He digs his fingers into your skin and grinds back with a whine and-

_Oh._

The realization that there's an unmistakable hardness pressing against your stomach hits you like a truck and leaves you just as winded.  
You don't remember when his hands moved under your shirt. Your skin is hot and hyper-sensitive and it doesn't help that he's tracing soft circles on your bare skin, fingers twitching with the effort to control himself.

  
"Please-" you start but don't know what you're begging for, maybe relief from the ache between your legs, maybe for him to just consume you, here in the garden, like an animal.

  
You realize he's waiting for permission.

  
Grabbing one of his hands, you lace your fingers with his and nudge him downwards, pull up the hem of your skirt, and place his hand on your thigh in what you hope is a very clear invitation.

  
He seems to get the message, because he starts trailing slowly up your leg- creeping closer and closer to that heat radiating from your center leaving goosebumps in his wake.

He surges forward to kiss you again, but this time it's different. His shadows emerge to lick at your skin, coalescing into one solid form -a tongue- forked at the end and wet with something as black and thick as ink.

  
It quickly finds your lips, brushes them softly in a proposition you enthusiastically accept. As soon as you part your lips his tongue slips in and explores your mouth and you can't help but let out a choked moan. You're electrified, swallowed by the rush of it all to the point you feel like you're going to burst, or drown, whichever comes first. He's making a low rumbling noise, not quite purring but that's the closest thing you can liken it to. His chest rattles like your knees, legs having turned to jelly, you can barely hold yourself up and he must notice because he pulls back and lifts you into his arms.

He walks you back until he reaches the old picnic table and sets you on it gently, but you're too mesmerized with the sight of his tongue lolling from his mouth, shiny with your own saliva, to care about the change in scenery. In this position your legs are spread around his hips and you can feel his cock throbbing, straining against the confines of his pants. Your head spins.

  
"I can smell you, your desire," his voice all raw and gravelly, "you've got the sweetest perfume, doll."

  
The words make you break out in a full-body flush that rises from your toes up to your cheeks.  
His hands return to your skirt, slipping under and up to caress your thighs but never quite touching where you desperately want him to.  
"Is that what you want," you shift in his grasp, trying to grind against his fingers, "for me to beg?"

"Patience..." he whispers and before you can reply he relents, just for a moment. The first light touch is enough to make you writhe. His fingers find your folds slick and dripping with the evidence of your own desire. You feel his sharp intake of breath at the discovery as if he's constantly surprised at your own receptiveness. He's closely gauging your reaction to it all, soaking in your reactions with rapt attention.

  
And react you do. The edge of his glove catches on your clit and you lurch like you've just been shocked. Another touch- firmer and deliberate this time- makes you choke out a curse.

  
"Ah, God-" you moan as he begins his torturous, slow circling around your clit. It's not rough enough to get you to that point your entire being is straining for but it's enough to make every nerve hypersensitive and awash with pleasure.

  
His head is in your neck again, cool breath puffing against your too-hot skin and tongue pressed against your pulse point.

  
In a brief moment of clarity you realize that all of this is occurring when neither you nor him have removed a single inch of clothing. Hell, he still even has that woven sunhat on his head. You aren't sure whether to be embarrassed by the clumsy haste or _very_ turned on by that fact. Either way, your skirt is becoming an annoying hindrance and you decide to remove it. After tossing it somewhere onto the ground you say a silent prayer of thanks that your Grandmother lived in the absolute middle of nowhere, and there is not a single soul for the next 10 miles that could see or hear you getting fucked by a living scarecrow.

The sight of you in his arms, bare legs spread and flushed skin begging to be touched finally breaks something within him. The dam breaks and hes falling upon you, hands roving the newly uncovered skin and mouth following soon after. He glances up at you for a moment, face between your legs, to make sure you still want this and you desperately want to kiss him again. There's a warm churning of some emotion you don't want to name in the pit of your chest.

He slips your underwear off, inch by inch, and lets out a low guttural noise at the sight of your bare sex. You know he can smell how much you desperately want him.  
And he gives it to you, finally,_ finally,_ he parts you and licks from your entrance to your clit and you keen his name with such ferocity that your voice breaks.

He devours you, there, in the garden.

It doesn't take long before you're flying towards the edge, his long tongue swirling and teasing your clit deftly and without mercy. Your hands scratch at the splintering wood of the table wildly before finding purchase at the nape of his neck.

  
_Don't stop, don't stop, don't stop_

  
His tongue leaves you clit and you want to scream in anguish.

You try to speak your frustration but only manage incoherent noises.  
But then, that forked appendage finds your entrance and, after a smoldering glance he plunges it inside you.

  
"Fuck-," your back arches up and you shift as he slides it in, further than any human's tongue could dare. He curls it inside of you, deeper and deeper, massaging your inner walls. You're teetering on the edge, legs quaking around his head and pulling him deeper.

All it takes is for him to swirl around your clit once more, twice, and you're over the edge and seeing stars. Your walls clench rhythmically around his tongue and he fucks you through it, prolonging your orgasm as long as possible. You try to moan, to cry, anything, but your voice is so raw nothing comes out.

When you regain some sense of composure you look down and he's gazing up at you, tongue still firmly inside you, just oozing self-satisfaction. When he does withdraw he takes the time to lap up your slick like it's the most delicious thing he's ever tasted.

"C'mere," you command softly, voice wavering. And he obeys, standing up and bringing his head inches away from yours. He's panting softly, tongue lolling, and you want to kiss him more than anything. So you do, and you can taste yourself as he enters your mouth.

  
He presses his hips to meet yours again and god, you can feel how achingly hard he is through his jeans and you take pity on him- at long last. As soon as you unzip him he springs from his confines, hot and heavy into your hands. His cock is just as inky black as his tongue and made of the same shadowy substance as the rest of him. The base is thick and swollen and from there it tapers to a blunt point. It twitches in your grasp.

  
He gives a feeble stutter forward, fucking into your hand just to get a little more sensation to ease the ache.

"_Fuck_, Nydia-," he's cut off by his own groan when you run your thumb over the tip, finding it slick with precum.

  
You take your hand away and let him position himself at your entrance, hips grinding forward till the head brushes against your slick folds and he gasps your name.

  
Another gentle nudge and he's easing his way inside of you, and your body accepts him easily, greedily. When he's fully buried inside you you notice how hard he's gripping the table, splintering the wood to near breaking point, restraining himself. The stretch is new and not entirely pleasant at first, but it only takes a couple moments for the pain to dissolve and be replaced by the warm feeling of fullness and unadulterated satisfaction. He fits inside you like he was made for you.

  
You encourage him to move, kissing him lightly on his neck and nudging your hips forward. That first slow thrust and you know you're never going to forget this, this feeling of being whole and the pulse of his cock inside you as he drags his way in and out. You know hes not going to last long, either, judging from the way his hips falter each time he thrusts into you.

  
It's almost too much, almost too much sensation for your body to handle all at once. He finds your clit again and teases it each time he snaps his hips forward and you cry out his name, gasping and shuttering.

He takes his sweet time, savoring each drag of his cock against your tight heat. It's almost too fond, the way he's fucking you, with a gentle attentiveness that feels wrong for just a quick fuck with a stranger. But he doesn't feel like a stranger, he feels like home, feels like a lover. You want to kiss him again, keep his body crushed up against you and buried inside, his raspy voice in your ear.

  
"Hah-," you pant and feel yourself smile, "-don't stop, please, don't stop." You want to tell to to please not leave after all this is over, to please don't let this just be a one time thing. 

  
"Wouldn't dream of it, doll," he says, voice coming out garbled and strained.

You reply by hooking your legs around his torso, changing the angle and making you both moan. He leans in again, bringing his face close and bumping his forehead against yours in a way that feels startlingly affectionate.  
You don't want to come off as clingy. You've only known each-other for a couple days, but it feels like this was meant to happen- meeting him, doing _this_.  
But you hold your tongue, instead canting your hips and grinding into him to the rhythm he's set. You eagerly meet each thrust, body reaching for that peak.

When the pad of his thumb grinds into your clit again your second orgasm comes rushing over you with such sudden ferocity your legs shake and you claw at his back wildly. Your muscles clamp around him, pulling him in that much deeper into you.

Whatever resemblance of coherency he once had vanishes. He alternates between hissing sweet nothings you can't quite make out into the crook of your neck, and animalistic, guttural noises that you can feel rise from the depths of his body.

  
His fingers dig into your hips almost painfully before he stuffs himself inside you as far as possible with one last feeble jerk. You can feel him twitch inside you, and the warm spill of cum that follows.  
Your walls are still clenching rhythmically, drawing out every last drop till he's utterly spent.

The only thing you can hear for many minutes is the sound of your combined harsh breathing, trying desperately to catch enough air. He doesn't pull out for a long time, and not just because he's firmly locked in you by the swell of the base of his cock. In your post-orgasmic haze you marvel at the way it feels to be joined together- and you're not quite ready to untangle the vice grip your legs have on him. 

He's just as unwilling to part as you are. His mouth is on your neck, soft shadows tickling your skin with each breath. He lets a hand travel down the expanse of your belly, stopping to knead into the sensitive flesh when you writhe with your own ticklishness. A quiet laugh escapes him. 

The hand travels lower, slips between your two bodies and feels the place where they are joined. You're almost too sensitive to cope with it, his slick fingers feeling just how stretched you are around his cock. It's... reverential, almost.

Finally, seemingly satisfied with his exploration, he gives a bewildered shake of his head and turns his attention back to you. You both just kind of look at each other for a moment, the reality of what just happened starting to sink in. The world comes rushing back in and you hear the soft songs of birds above you, and then you remember you're outside. The rapidly-cooling air of the evening makes you shiver, and upon noticing that, he does withdraw, pulling out reluctantly with a wet pop. You watch him stare down, entranced, and it isn't until you lean forward to look do you see why. His cum lazily drips from your opening, the same ink black color as him. You shouldn't be surprised, but you are.

  
"That was," you draw in a shaky, unsure breath, "amazing." And you mean it wholeheartedly, it was by far the best sex you've had in your life despite not having much to compare it to.

He doesn't reply for a moment and you worry he doesn't feel the same way.

His reply is a careful press to the corner of your mouth, tender and soft, and he lets out a amused chuckle. All the muscles in your body go lax with relief.

  
"_You're_ amazing," he says into the space between you. A familiar warmth bubbles up in your chest. But despite your insides feeling like warm honey you're shivering more now, your sweat-slick skin not helping you in the slightest. The wind has picked up, and it brings with it the chill of an oncoming cold front. Before you know it you're in his arms being carried bridal-style through your house. You don't have time to be surprised before you notice how strange he's walking. His movements are slow and vaguely uncoordinated and you make a questioning sound in the back of your throat.

  
He sets you down gently on your bed and slumps against you, supporting himself with one arm against the headboard.

  
"Is something wrong?" You ask, concerned.

  
He hums, "This form is energy intensive, I can't stay in it for long," he traces his fingers on your skin absentmindedly, "even if I really want to."

  
"Oh," a pang of disappointment travels through you, realizing he's not going to stay. You aren't quite sure when you decided you wanted him to spend the night with you, but suddenly the thought of not having this scarecrow keeping you company is very upsetting. 

  
"But I'd be happy to continue this in your dreams, if you'll have me."

  
_Oh. _


End file.
